Jesse Oxfeld — Theater Critic

In Pitmen, the characters, as written by Lee Hall (who knows of what he mines, having also written Billy Elliot), are mostly just mouthpieces, and Mr. Hall's writing is simplistic, often hokey.

But the leads seem miscast. Ms. Jones—the doubting nun of Doubt, the (usually) steadfast and admirable President Allison Taylor of 24—is so commanding in her role, and Ms. Hawkins so mousily virtuous, that Shaw's intended relationship between the two characters seems almost inverted. Mrs. Warren should represent the stifling past for British women; Vivie should represent the rationalized future. Instead, Vivie seems a scold and Mrs. Warren the charismatic, modern realist.

But the leads seem miscast. Ms. Jones—the doubting nun of Doubt, the (usually) steadfast and admirable President Allison Taylor of 24—is so commanding in her role, and Ms. Hawkins so mousily virtuous, that Shaw's intended relationship between the two characters seems almost inverted. Mrs. Warren should represent the stifling past for British women; Vivie should represent the rationalized future. Instead, Vivie seems a scold and Mrs. Warren the charismatic, modern realist.

Supporting actors double as a small band, providing jaunty tunes that express the characters' repressed emotions. (The cast—mostly unchanged since St. Ann's—is multitalented and very hardworking.) Crashing waves—a metaphor for surging emotion and unattainable freedom—are projected on the upstage wall. There's ingenious 39 Steps-style stagecraft—dummies for children; an actress with a long stick moving a windblown newspaper across the stage; the full cast bobbing rapidly in unison to suggest an express train rumbling past. Characters jump in and out of the movie itself, a live Purple Rose of Cairo. This Brief Encounter is vibrantly theatrical and totally absorbing.

Enron, the hit London import that opened last night at the Broadhurst Theatre, is a surprising and remarkable creation: It’s a two-and-a-half-hour lecture on business history, and it’s utterly thrilling. Credit for this feat of alchemy goes primarily to second-time playwright Lucy Prebble, and her director, Rupert Goold, artistic director of London’s Headlong Theatre, which commissioned Enron. Together, they take the seemingly dry subject matter and, with a clever, tightly constructed script and dark, menacing, inventive staging, produce a vibrant, deeply theatrical experience.

Viola Davis is sensational as Rose, the devoted and betrayed wife. Wilson’s lyrical script offers any number of stirring monologues, and Ms. Davis delivers hers—especially when she learns of Troy’s betrayal—with a vivid, bracing rawness. She more than holds her own against Mr. Washington, both in their tender scenes and in their explosive ones. It’s no small feat, and she does it without too much shouting.

Sean Hayes is surprisingly charming and ingratiating as Baxter, and Katie Finneran steals the show for the scene and a half she’s in, bringing a much-needed comic jolt as the floozy Baxter picks up in a dive on Christmas Eve. But Kristin Chenoweth—who earned not just entrance applause but also entrance shrieks on the night I attended—seems miscast as Baxter’s love interest, Miss Kubelik: It’s impossible to imagine that such a no-nonsense dynamo would ever fall for Baxter’s conniving boss, much less try to kill herself when he jilts her.

Sean Hayes is surprisingly charming and ingratiating as Baxter, and Katie Finneran steals the show for the scene and a half she’s in, bringing a much-needed comic jolt as the floozy Baxter picks up in a dive on Christmas Eve. But Kristin Chenoweth—who earned not just entrance applause but also entrance shrieks on the night I attended—seems miscast as Baxter’s love interest, Miss Kubelik: It’s impossible to imagine that such a no-nonsense dynamo would ever fall for Baxter’s conniving boss, much less try to kill herself when he jilts her.

Indeed, it’s cleverly withholding: We get just enough information to feel like we’re learning something about Mr. Sondheim without actually learning anything about him. We’re shown his studio and told he writes on yellow pads with soft pencils, but we don’t learn anything substantive about his writing process. We’re told he had a terrible relationship with his mother, but we don’t really learn how that affected him. We’re told he was confused about his sexuality at 35 and had his first serious relationship at 60, but he doesn’t mention anything—even the gender—of the person he met at 60. It’s a live-action A&E Biography, and it’s a dull one. But, hey, you can’t complain about the soundtrack.

American Idiot—the rock opera version of Green Day’s 2004 pop-punk album, which opened at the St. James Theatre yesterday—is an energetic and entertaining 95 minutes. It’s fun. But it’s also, amid all the booming rock, a little dull. You’re diverted, but you’re not moved. There are archetypes and themes, but there aren’t really characters or a plot. American Idiot is a concert; it’s not a play.

But what Harvey Fierstein’s Tony-winning book lacks in structure, it more than makes up for in humor and warmth. Jerry Herman’s score, also a Tony winner, contains several stirring anthems: “I Am What I Am,” “The Best of Times,” the lovely “Look Over There.” And director Terry Johnson’s production, which transforms the big Longacre into a très intime night at the titular club, is simply gorgeous, beautifully designed (by Tim Shortall), costumed (by Matthew Wright) and, especially, choreographed (by Lynne Page).

It’s not great, but it’s very good—an entirely entertaining and enjoyable two and a half hours in the theater. And as a clearly commercial-minded venture, designed to bring in tourist audiences and deliver a long run, it ably, if not perfectly, delivers the Big Broadway Show experience.

The only dramatic tension ginned up is that Johnny Cash plans to leave Sun and sign with Columbia, but he can’t bring himself to tell Phillips. Finally, he does, and Phillips is angry. Briefly. Then they have a drink, all is forgiven and it’s time for the finale. The set—the Sun studio, done up in red leather and silver crown moldings, like a hip steakhouse—disappears, and the band rocks through a final five tracks. This, at last, is what you’re here for, and it only took about 90 minutes to arrive.

The script by Mr. Ludwig—who also wrote Crazy for You and Moon Over Buffalo—is carefully and cleverly constructed. But at two and a half hours, including intermission, it’s also too long, especially in the latter half of the first act, when the scenes, and the slapstick, seem to drag on. Mr. Tucci makes his debut as a stage director with this show, and he does excellent work with the comedy, especially the well-choreographed physical bits—it’s not every day that you see audience members literally throwing their heads back and guffawing, as they did, frequently, at the performance I attended. But, still, there’s that pacing problem: The show would be better if Mr. Tucci kept it moving faster, perhaps by trimming some of the script.

The play is didactic, but, then, Rothko was a didact, which makes him an ideal conduit for Mr. Logan’s arguments. “I am not your rabbi, I am not your father, I am not your shrink, I am not your friend, I am not your teacher—I am your employer,” Rothko tells Ken upon hiring him. But he can’t help himself: He discourses on philosophy, on literature, on painting. “Most of painting is thinking,” he says. Rothko prides himself and his generation on having vanquished the Cubists, but he rails against the rising Pop artists, against change.

But, as much I enjoyed the play, I couldn’t really buy it, because I don’t buy Adam and Luke’s relationship. There are lovely and tender scenes between the two, but their worldviews are so different—and so much time is spent fighting about that—that’s it’s tough to see how they ever made it to a third date.

A Behanding in Spokane is laugh-out-loud funny, but it’s also a bit disappointing. Unlike many of Mr. McDonagh’s earlier works, equally funny and typically gorier, it doesn’t seem to have any deeper point than the comedy. It’s also the first time he has set a play in the United States, which I think detracts: The skewed worlds he creates make sense on a remote, fog-shrouded Irish island; in a nondescript American city, the unreality bumps up against reality. And he doesn’t quite have an ear for American dialect: His working-class grafters use plenty of “ain’ts,” but they also use a few “mightn’ts.”

Maybe you liked Hal Prince’s original staging of A Little Night Music better. Fine, you were blown away by Judi Dench’s interpretation of Desirée in London in 1995. But the new revival of Night Music, which opened at the Walter Kerr Sunday night—the first Broadway production since its 1973 premiere, though it has been mounted several times by the City Opera—is a fantastic night at the theater, an entrancing, lovely, delightfully cast production of a Stephen Sondheim classic.

Race is an intriguing play, and far better than Mr. Mamet's last Broadway effort, the mediocre sitcom November. (It's also much better than 'Keep Your Pantheon,' the main piece of The Two Unrelated Plays By David Mamet, which played at the Atlantic earlier this season.) Ultimately, this is not thought-provoking Mamet so much as a parody of it.

The modern-dance giant Bill T. Jones has directed and choreographed. It is his first outing as a theater director and his second as a Broadway choreographer (following the hit repressed-German-teens-singing-indie-rock musical Spring Awakening). He creates a dizzying party onstage, giving his performers athletic, frenzied, propulsive and suggestively butt-centric dances. Catwalks extend into the orchestra seats, and dancers regularly head into the aisles. (Set designer Marina Draghici has extended the poster-covered corrugated steel that marks the walls of the Shrine into the house, too, turning the entire theater into the club.)

The modern-dance giant Bill T. Jones has directed and choreographed. It is his first outing as a theater director and his second as a Broadway choreographer (following the hit repressed-German-teens-singing-indie-rock musical Spring Awakening). He creates a dizzying party onstage, giving his performers athletic, frenzied, propulsive and suggestively butt-centric dances. Catwalks extend into the orchestra seats, and dancers regularly head into the aisles. (Set designer Marina Draghici has extended the poster-covered corrugated steel that marks the walls of the Shrine into the house, too, turning the entire theater into the club.)